


Judo and Other Dances

by MicrosuedeMouse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Illya taking the lead, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Waverly and Solo are there but not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 15:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14595825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MicrosuedeMouse/pseuds/MicrosuedeMouse
Summary: It's been a few weeks since Rome and Gaby really expected Illya to stop flirting with her after everything she did, but he hasn't. And it's too much for her to take. None of this was in her plan.





	Judo and Other Dances

**Author's Note:**

> Did I drop like five WIPs to write this instead when all I had was a ghost of an inspiration? Yes, absolutely. (The inspiration was: a lot of us write Illya as more cautious and Gaby as more forward, which is 100% justified, but also upon one rewatch of the film I realised that Illya is actually flirting ALL THE TIME and is a big pudding man who is entirely ready to fall in love with Gaby from the FIRST NIGHT.)
> 
> I've written sex scenes before but never shared one, so uh... we'll see how that goes? I'm easing in haha, this isn't especially grody. I'm an ace person with a complex relationship to public sexuality so I feel weird posting it but it also turned out well, sooo. Enjoy I hope??
> 
> (Back to my other projects, and hopefully you'll see me again soon!)

Gaby has caught herself thinking about kissing him far too many times since they arrived in Dublin, and it’s only been two and a half days.

There are a few things standing in her way: for starters, they’ve barely had a spare second to themselves. Waverly has been a little more hands-on lately, supervising at a close range for their first few official missions as a team. She can’t blame him, really; everything has to go off without a hitch if he wants to keep his pet project running, and they’re barely into their second month. And Solo, of course, is always close at hand, smiling insufferably, and he’s annoying but not nearly as much as he would be if he weren’t also so damn likable. She tries not to let him find out she thinks so.

Primarily, though, she’s simply been thinking too much. It’s silly, she tells herself – she’s not a teenager any more. It’s nothing worth fretting over like this. But here’s the thing: what they had, she’d told herself at first, was a heady mutual attraction. There was no mistaking what had passed between them in Rome – they were flirting right from that first night where she’d gotten drunk and harassed him via both dance and wrestling. They’d both known what they wanted, even if they hadn’t quite gotten that far. That was fine; she knew how to work with that. She even knew how to use it to her advantage if it came down to it. And she’d been unhappy to acknowledge that it would all be over after she betrayed him.

Only it wasn’t.

The first time she’d seen him after her double-cross, he was there to save her life, and he did so with savage, spectacular efficiency. Then he’d dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms with all the gentleness of a man who had not just committed brutal murder. She’d been in shock in the moment, but his tender smile and the softness of his eyes had begun the process of dragging her back to herself. When the helicopter landed he’d wrapped her in a heavy blanket and stayed at her side, one hand rubbing her shoulder. In fact he hadn’t _left_ her side for the rest of the day – not until Victoria Vinciguerra was quite thoroughly dead and they arrived back at the hotel to collect their things. And there, as they said what they assumed was goodbye, it had all still been there: the attraction, perhaps even more intense than before, and with it that look in his eyes, deep and intense and so _overwhelmingly_ soft. When he’d given her back the ring and said ‘ _that way I can keep track of you_ ’ she’d really believed for a moment there that he may actually intend to find her again, one day.

But they were interrupted yet again and she left, because she couldn’t bear this. It was too much.

And it still was in Turkey, and everywhere else they’d been since. Maybe somehow even _more_ so, now that they seemed to be working together for the foreseeable future. Every assumption that had gotten her through what happened in Rome – that it meant nothing, that they’d never see each other again, that he would hate her by the time it was over – had proven false. And he still looks at her like she’s the answer to every question he’s never dared to ask.

 

Solo is out making a contact while Waverly picks up a dead drop, so it’s just the two of them, lying low at the safe house until the others get back. The place is barren of almost anything resembling entertainment so Illya has made his own, after a fashion: he’s pushed aside the coffee table in the long living room and is silently practicing one of his various martial arts, his motions skilful and rhythmic. Gaby leans in the doorway sipping a cup of coffee and willing her stomach to calm, because he’s peeled off his sweater and in just his undershirt she can see the muscles of his arms tense and shift as he moves, and it’s hypnotic to watch.

She can’t stand there for long before he notices her – he’s a spy, she reminds herself as he glances her way; noticing is his entire job – but he doesn’t turn to face her until he’s finished the kata he’s performing, ever a pillar of self-discipline. Finally he pauses and glances her way, rolling the shoulder that she knows he landed on in a fight yesterday. “It’s judo,” he explains, because she doesn’t speak first. “I no longer compete, but it is good to maintain my form. Practice never goes to waste.”

She nods. “My instructors used to say the same thing about ballet.” There’s a bead of sweat on his jawline and it’s so distracting she swears she’s seventeen again.

“When did you last dance?” he asks. Then, at the amused quirk of her eyebrows, he cracks a small smile and adds, “Formally.”

“I’m not certain,” she admits. “It must have been at least six or seven years ago.” Discovering her coffee finished, she leans back to place the empty mug on the kitchen counter, then returns her shoulder to the doorframe. “I kept practicing for a while after that. Always hoping that I might get the chance to go back. But eventually I saw that it was never happening, and I let it go.”

He stands back and gestures to the open space in front of him. “I’m sure it would come back to you if you tried.”

Gaby raises her eyebrows. “You want me to dance for you, Illya?” she asks skeptically.

He grins a little. “You saw mine,” he reasons. “Now perhaps you show me yours.”

For a second there she thinks her heart stops, because he’s doing it again. He’s _flirting_ with her. Like he did before – like he hasn’t stopped doing in weeks. For all that he’s supposed to be the professional, the stickler for rules, he can’t seem to help himself – he’s been doing this since that night back in the hotel in Rome and she doesn’t know why but she can’t bring herself to resent it. Not even if it alarms her a little bit to think about what it all means.

After a moment’s consideration, she toes off her shoes and then peels off her socks – if she doesn’t have ballet flats, bare feet are the next best thing. Padding across the hardwood, she stretches briefly (in her mind she can hear the angry scolding of a long-ago instructor, because it isn’t _nearly_ enough of a warmup) and raises her arms and then, because she’s not even sure what she remembers, she lets herself fall into the first thing that comes to mind. It’s not a specific dance, really, so much as just a flow from one position to the next, not unlike his kata – learning by rote. Practice. She’s rusty and she can tell, but the way he’s watching her he either doesn’t know any better or just doesn’t care.

She comes to a halt directly in front of him, and he applauds quietly, so she gives him a little curtsy. “Beautiful,” he says admiringly. “If this is how you perform without having practiced in so long, I wish I could have seen you as a soloist.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, still wondering why they even bothered to note that in her file. It’s a part of her life she looks back on bittersweetly. “I was better then,” she confirms. “Far better. Part of me wishes I hadn’t had to give it up.”

“We do what we must,” Illya says, stepping a fraction closer. “Luckily for you, you have many skills aside from dance.” There’s a beat, where neither of them speak, and Gaby wonders what comes next. Then he says softly, “Did I ever tell you that I love the ballet?”

“No,” she answers, and she wants to be intrigued by that, wants to follow that thought somewhere interesting and actually _learn_ something about the man, but he’s fixed her with that intense gaze again and it’s making it very difficult to focus. She swallows. “You didn’t.”

“Ever since I was young,” he answers with a nod. She’s certain he’s somehow even closer now.

And then the sound of the front door. Waverly comes into the room, and he doesn’t hide the smirk on his face as the two agents look up, Gaby turning to face him. He waves a manila envelope in the air. “Got what I needed. And what’ve we been up to back here?”

“Getting some exercise,” Illya answers, once he’s had a chance to swallow whatever it was that jumped into his throat at the interruption. “It is never a bad time for some extra training.”

“Quite right, Kuryakin.” Sitting down in an old armchair, Waverly tears open his envelope and inspects the contents, nodding in satisfaction. “On another note, how would the two of you feel about attending a gala this evening?”

 

The gala doesn’t require all three of them, but Waverly is still eager for everything to go as smoothly as it possibly can, so they’re all there. Gaby was half-surprised he didn’t come along himself, but when she’d cracked a joke about it he’d admitted he could only secure the three invitations. It’s Solo’s job to impress some local bigwigs while Gaby and Illya scope out the rest of the crowd, ears to the ground for any interesting gossip – they still don’t know for certain who is and isn’t involved in this smuggling ring, so it’s a good idea to just schmooze and see what they can find out.

Their covers don’t have any particular relationship to one another, but given the nature of the party, they’ve no orders not to interact. Nonetheless, Gaby is surprised when Illya leans on the bar next to her and tosses her a smile as he waves to the bartender. She sips her fancy cocktail and waits to see what he’ll do, because she has no idea what his intentions are.

“Lovely party,” he says once he has a whiskey in hand.

“It’s quite something,” she agrees. “The band is just to die for.” It’s a bald-faced lie, because she couldn’t care less about the kind of music they play at an event like this, but it’s small talk. It doesn’t have to be true anyway.

“Mhm,” he says with an easy nod, glancing around the room. Then, taking a slow sip of his drink, he meets her eye and it’s all that familiar intensity and she can’t look away. “You know, I couldn’t help noticing you from the far side of the room. I hope you will forgive my saying, but you look _beautiful_ this evening. I have not been able to take my eyes off you.”

Gaby feels that pound in her chest again, because he’s couching it in the casual approach of a rich, confident man flirting with a probable stranger at a high-society soiree, but every word is _earnest_. He’s doing it again – he can’t seem to stop. She’s not sure she wants him to.

“You flatter me, sir,” she answers with a smile, uncertain where this is going.

“Is it mere flattery if it is true?” he asks, eyes sparkling. He finishes his drink, and with the briefest glance into her own glass she sees that hers is done as well. Illya puts both of the empty glasses on the bar and extends one hand to her. “May I?”

She agrees wordlessly, perhaps more out of surprise than anything else. He guides her out to the floor with an easy, charming smile, settling one hand on her waist and pulling her close as the band begins a waltz.

He dances well, and after checking that no one around them is near enough to hear her, she narrows her eyes at him. “I thought you couldn’t dance,” she accuses him softly.

“I lied,” he says easily, amused at her irritation. “Besides, it’s a waltz – they are all more or less the same, yes? Once you memorise the steps it is not so hard to do. Like my judo kata.”

For a moment or two Gaby just watches his face, trying to decide how she feels about this. On one hand she’s annoyed at him for misleading her, but on the other, being swept into a perfect waltz by the gentle Russian giant is a turn-on the likes of which is a little embarrassing in such a formal setting. She looks at his hand in hers, thinks about how mere hours ago she was watching him practice deliberate, calculated punches. Last night she was watching him execute far rougher blows, on human targets. And now he’s here, holding her like she’s something precious, and she wonders what he’s thinking. Wonders, for a fraction of a second, if he’s picturing her dragging him into a coat closet somewhere and having her way with him as vividly as she is.

“Do you know any dance other than the waltz?” she asks, because she can’t think of what else to say.

“I might be able to remember the steps to one more,” he admits, his voice low. “If I had a good partner to work with.”

And that’s it – he’s destroyed her. Those words, spoken in that lowered tone, combined with that deep blue gaze delving directly into her – what is he trying to do? Kill her? She’d already thought he was too much, and now this. She doesn’t know how she’ll make it through the night.

Before she has the chance to think beyond her own impending death, the waltz is over and he’s releasing her waist politely and thanking her for the dance. This party is suddenly the last place she wants to be and listening to the gossip of the wealthy and bored is the last thing she wants to do. Right now she needs to be somewhere underneath the weight of a car, warm and sweaty, making an engine rumble and purr with a few clever touches in just the right places.

A _car_.

Gaby excuses herself to the washroom, going so far as to splash her face with cold water, because she’s about to lose her grip.

When she finally steels herself to come out again, Illya is _right fucking there_ across from the door, but there’s tension in his shoulders now. He smiles as he approaches and offers her his elbow. “May I escort you to your car?” he asks, and she frowns slightly but allows it. It’s not until they’re three minutes down the main road and steering off into a dark side-street that he explains: a signal from Solo and a message from Waverly. Something’s gone sideways. They’re splitting up overnight in the hopes of maintaining Illya and Gaby’s covers, at least. Some extra driving around to shake any potential tails, a car switch under a bridge, and then Gaby and Illya will have a hotel room waiting for them across town. It’s some extra spending they’re sure Waverly isn’t happy about, but the possibility of Solo’s cover being blown is worse.

When they reach the hotel and check in, it’s a smaller room than they’ve had anywhere else. Waverly’s already been there, they can tell, because their bags are on the bed and there’s a message written in cypher tucked into the top of Illya’s suitcase – _Sorry the accommodations are less than stellar,_ it says, after ten minutes of decoding. _Last-minute booking, and all._ He leaves a passphrase by which they’ll recognise someone bringing them information in the morning. In absence of a fireplace to burn the note in, Illya soaks it in the sink, then shreds and mashes it to a pulp and flushes it down the toilet.

While he’s busy destroying Waverly’s message and sweeping for bugs, Gaby is distracted in the middle of the bedroom, which contains only one bed. It’s a queen, at least, but she imagines that a bed has to be _awfully_ big before someone could lie next to Illya and not feel crowded. And it’s a single room, not a suite, so there’s no sofa for one of them to claim – just the bed and a writing desk with a single chair. Unless one of them sleeps on the floor the only option is to share. She’s an adult, she reminds herself; this isn’t such a big deal – except that tonight it kind of _is_ , because she’s already going out of her mind and sleeping peacefully next to him sounds a lot like crossing the Berlin Wall used to sound: laughably unachievable.

“Sorry about the rushed exit,” Illya says with a sigh as he comes out of the washroom. He’s calmed down now that they’re safe in their room. “Things went sour very quickly.” He takes off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair by the desk, but for the moment his waistcoat stays. It’s a look she can’t stop staring at, and therefore cannot stand this evening.

She leans against the windowsill and busies herself getting out of her knee-high boots. “What happened, exactly?” she asks, reaching with one hand to start pulling pins out of her hair.

“Not sure, precisely,” he admits, removing his cufflinks. “Solo signalled me and then disappeared. A moment later I received short message from Waverly, via waiter. Coded, of course, but it amounted to ‘counteragent in attendance, Solo compromised,’ with instructions for our exit.”

“I hope Solo made a mistake,” Gaby says, laughing to herself. “So we can rub it in his face tomorrow.” She pulls her hair free and looks up, and he’s grinning at her just a little, and she’s dying.

“We will have to find out,” he agrees quietly. Cuffs unbuttoned, he rolls them up to his elbows, as if she wasn’t struggling enough. She catches that smile again and god, he’s _beautiful_. Why is he doing this to her?

He hangs his jacket up in the small wardrobe and then leans on the desk, looking maybe a little at a loss. Their evening was abruptly cut short, after all, and now they’re rather unexpectedly trapped in this tiny room with nothing to do.

“Did you learn anything useful tonight?” she asks, trying to put off the moment they have to address their sleeping arrangements. Antsy and trying to keep her hands busy, she reties her hair into a more comfortable ponytail.

Illya shakes his head. “No. All spoiled heirs and heiresses with nothing to do but spread gossip about one another. And none of that was about smuggling – only fashion, money, sex.” He huffs. “I do not care for this method of obtaining information. Time-consuming and wasteful. Other methods prove more effective.” His hands flex, and she doesn’t have to guess what his preferred methods are. “And you?”

“Nothing,” she sighs. “I’m inclined to agree with you. The parties have good food, usually, and free drinks, but that’s about where the appeal stops. The music is dull and the people are even more so. I think I prefer to steal information, or trick people into giving it up, rather than to wait for it to come to me.” She catches him watching her and then, without her full permission, her mouth is saying, “The only worthwhile thing I learned tonight is that you can dance.”

His lips quirk in a tiny smile and his eyes sparkle and there he is again – that particular version of him that she’d seen on the dance floor this evening and in the safe house living room earlier that afternoon and in a dozen other places besides, as long as they were there alone. “I imagine I may come to regret revealing this to you so soon,” he confesses, amused. “But it was… difficult opportunity to pass up. And, of course, I was getting bored.”

“Oh, is that what it was?” Gaby snorts, grateful for the ability she developed long ago to remain confident on the outside even when she doesn’t feel it on the inside. “You just thought you would use me for entertainment?”

“Well, I could not practice judo,” he answers, teasing. Then, after a beat, he adds in a lower voice: “I meant what I said. You looked wonderful this evening. It was hard not to watch you.” She glances away, searching for words, as he casts his eye down at her dress for just a second. “You _look_ wonderful.”

“You picked the outfit,” she reminds him, and it comes out just the tiniest bit irritable, because she knows it’s not much of a response.

“It is not the outfit making _you_ look good,” he points out. One finger traces a circle in the air. “Other way around.”

Illya is holding her gaze and she’s on fire inside. She’s afraid, but not of him – never of him. There’s nothing in him for her to fear; she’s known that since the moment he pulled her shaking into his arms in the rain in Italy. Maybe _that’s_ what scares her.

“You’re one to talk,” she tells him, because at this point she’s so full of adrenaline it can’t make a difference. He’s been pushing her all day and she’s reached the frayed edge of her remaining willpower.

He lifts his eyebrows slightly. “I don’t know what you mean,” he answers, feigning total ignorance.

Gaby scoffs, pushing off the windowsill. “Don’t you?” she asks, her tone nearly confrontational now. As she begins to approach him she’s grateful she took her boots off, because there’s a jittery feeling running through her bones and she’s not sure she could walk in those heels without wobbling at this point. “Running wet fingers through your hair in the bathroom to take out some of the pomade. Putting away the suit jacket and leaving on the waistcoat, tight to your chest. Rolling up your sleeves to show off your arms.” Drawing close, she taps the knot of his tie with one fingernail. “On a man like you, Illya, that’s a very powerful look. Surely you’re aware of that.”

“Man like me?” he asks innocently. Even leaning back against the desk, he’s still considerably taller than she is, and she makes a show of not looking him in the face or acknowledging his question – instead she plays with the necktie, tugging it out of the vest slightly. It’s black with fine detail in royal blue, and the colour finally drags her back to his eyes, infinitely richer than any silk.

“A man like you,” she confirms slowly.

He rises off the edge of the desk, pulling even closer into her space, and his smile grows just the tiniest bit. She closes her hand around the tie, apparently having made a decision, even if that decision makes her insides vibrate.

“Perhaps I need you to be more specific,” Illya murmurs, so close she can feel his breath on her lips. He’s _toying_ with her, and if her head wasn’t in such an impressive fog right now she’d be about ready to kill him. As it is, though, all she wants is to close this gap, everything else be damned.

But he won’t quite lean in. He’s so close she can _feel_ him smiling. When did he get so _confident_ about it all? Is it just because he knows Solo is so far away they can’t possibly be interrupted? He still wants an answer, and fuck it, at this point she’ll take the blow to her pride. She knows she can get revenge later if only they can get this over with and she can have her mind back.

“A very large, very, _very_ handsome man,” she breathes against him. “The kind who looks excellent filling out a nice suit and even better when you’re removing it.” Finally, _finally_ , he has mercy.

Kissing Illya is everything Gaby had believed it would be – everything she _needed_ it to be, after several weeks of increasing tension. It’s intense and passionate and his arms are warm around her back and combing her fingers through his hair gets the most _incredible_ response. If she had any remaining reservations, they’re out the window now. She will deal with the rest of it tomorrow. Right now she’s pulling on his necktie in an effort to bring him as close to her as possible, and he seems happy to comply.

Before long he’s trailing open-mouthed kisses down the side of her neck and she can’t get enough of it. “Illya,” she gasps, her breath hitching, and she feels him smiling again.

“Gaby,” he answers, his mouth just below her right ear, and she recognises it as the beginning of a question as he returns to her lips and kisses her hard. In response, she yanks the knot of his tie until it loosens, then pulls the whole thing right off him and starts unbuttoning his vest.

Pleased, he moves his palm down to grip her ass, and she groans her approval.

Once his waistcoat is on the floor, his white shirt unbuttoned, and his belt pulled open, he fumbles one hand at the back of her neck until he finds the zipper to her dress and pulls it lazily down. His fingers slide inside the dress to press against her back, pulling her flush against him once again. She drags her fingernails through the back of his hair, her other hand on his neck, and kisses him as deeply as she can.

Finally they manage to pull apart long enough for Gaby to finish untucking his shirt and push it off his shoulders, and for Illya in turn to pull her dress down her arms until it puddles at her feet. With him in his trousers and her in her skivvies and pantyhose, they finally tumble back onto the bed, not far behind her. He scoots her up to rest her head on the generous pillows, then returns his attention to her neck, making his way down to her collarbones and beyond.

She likes the image of him on his hands and knees above her, kissing reverently down her body, and she likes that she doesn’t have to feel embarrassed by her fervor and impatience, because he seems to be just as eager.

He kisses between her breasts, and atop each one, before moving down towards her stomach – and she takes the opportunity to arch into his attentions while simultaneously reaching behind her back to undo her bra, throwing it aside as casually as she did the rest of their clothes. He doesn’t miss the motion, lifting his face to peer up at her in amusement before moving upwards again to give her the attention she obviously wants.

Every time he looks at her, she feels goosebumps rise all over her body, because this is obviously more than just physical for both of them. That look in his eyes is _burning_ her (and so is his tongue) and it makes her heart both soar and stop at the same time. She has never been looked at that way, least of all by a man taking her to bed. It’s overwhelming.

When he makes it to the hem of her pantyhose and underwear, she manages – just barely – to utter an ultimatum: he can take them off, but he has to lose the pants. He complies gladly, trousers kicked off and falling forgotten to the floor with his waistcoat – and after he took such care with the jacket, too. He drags the hose down her legs so slowly she thinks she’ll die, his fingers brushing her skin so gently, melting her. He doesn’t stop there, kissing up her calves, then inside her thighs, before finally making it to the place she’s most desperate for him to visit. His attentions do not disappoint. He is very, very good at responding to feedback.

Eventually he makes his way back up far enough that she’s able to reach down and palm her own prize, drawing sounds from him that she wants to commit perfectly to memory. He bites gently into her neck where it meets her shoulder and they both groan. Her patience is short, and she pushes at the elastic of his briefs before long.

She’s plenty ready for him at this point, but he takes it slow, luxuriating. After a few moments he raises his head from her shoulder to look her in the eye. “Gaby, you should know, I…”

She stops him with a finger to his mouth, biting her lip. Her chest is tight and it has nothing to do with the attention he’s been showering on her. “Illya,” she answers, and he watches her with those eyes, the eyes that look so deep into her she swears he must know her better than anyone has ever known her, despite their mere weeks together. “I… the feeling is mutual, I just…” she bites her tongue, almost ashamed, but she can’t look away from him even if she tries. “I’m just not ready to say it out loud. Can we talk about it in the morning?” By the end she’s quiet, and she feels terrible for denying him this, but his gaze softens. With the gentlest smile she’s ever seen, he nods slightly, then leans in to kiss her so incredibly sweetly she could cry.

He shifts for a better angle and, while doing so, he takes her hands from his shoulders and laces his fingers with hers. In this way he can keep her hands above her head and also hold them, squeeze them tightly as he continues to thrust. This also makes her want to cry, because it is possibly the most loving gesture she has ever been shown. Tucking his face into her neck, he begins to murmur something in Russian – and she doesn’t know what he’s saying, but she has a feeling he might be telling her he loves her. It’s selfish of him, but this whole thing is selfish of them both, so she can’t really begrudge him that. Besides, he heeded her request: he’s not saying it in any way she has to answer. He’s mumbling it into her skin in a language she barely speaks, with no expectation of a response.

Like this – hands clasped in his, legs wrapped tightly around his hips, his words muffled against her throat – she reaches her climax, and he follows soon after, groaning and kissing her anywhere he can reach.

He shifts downward as he removes himself, wrapping his arms around under the small of her back and resting his head on her stomach for a few moments while they both catch their breath. Gaby is still seeing stars when he shuffles off the bed to clean up in the washroom, returning with a soft washcloth to clean her up as well. After tossing it in the laundry hamper in the corner, he returns to the bed, and when she rolls onto her side he wraps his arms around her and pulls her back flush against his chest.

“Are you crying?” he asks softly after a few minutes.

She doesn’t want to say yes but he’ll hear it on her voice if she says no, so she says nothing at all. After a moment he props himself up enough to peer worriedly over her shoulder, managing a glimpse of the side of her face. The arm he’s draped over her body moves as his hand goes to dry the tear on her cheek. “Gaby?” he asks, concerned.

She hates that she’s caught, but even worse would be him believing it’s his fault, so she rolls over in his embrace and buries herself in his chest. “I’ve never felt like this,” she manages to confess, pressed into his clavicle.

He runs a warm, gentle hand down her back, comforting. In a whisper, he asks, “Like-?”

“No one has ever made me feel the way you do,” she clarifies, swallowing. She still can’t quite say it, can’t say she feels _loved_ , nor that she’s overcome with love in return – but she thinks he understands, from the way he tucks her in under his chin and holds her, wrapping his arms around her as completely as he can.

“I am not going away,” he finally responds, and she believes him.

When she grows cold, he gets up just long enough to pull the sheet and blanket out from under her and then he rejoins her underneath them, pulling her close once again. Soon after that they agree to turn out the lights and allow themselves to sleep this way, wrapped around one another, spent and cozy and fond.

In the morning, Gaby knows, she will have to keep her promise and talk to him about all of this. But with Illya holding her all night, his adoration seeping into her skin at every point of contact, she thinks she’ll be able to tell him out loud that she loves him after a good eight hours’ sleep.


End file.
